


If only yesterday took place tomorrow

by ttired



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M, about as fluffy as I get fam, mid-season four, mother's day witsfullness, so here we go, when andre seemed in desperate need of some kindness u know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-21 15:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15560424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/pseuds/ttired
Summary: Samir parts with a squeeze of his shoulder.“Thing about bad luck,” he says after a pause. “It doesn’t stick, it cycles.”André supposes his friend means his last three races, and yeah, André’s been sort of peripherally aware that his mood’s been worse than normal, but he hadn’t realized he’d been acting sullen enough for Sam to comment on it.--May 2018's a bad month for André: Parix ePrix, he runs out of energy hitting Bird, Evans, Di Grassi in the process, and losing P2 in the last 200 meters of the race -- gets 10 grid place penalty for it. 6hr of Spa, the one car is DSQ after podiuming. Nürburgring, mechanical issues thrashed an otherwise solid performance in the car that should've podiumed for class. All he wants is a weekend in Nivelles alone to recharge and celebrate Mother's Day; Jev, of course, has other ideas.





	If only yesterday took place tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jorgelorenzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jorgelorenzo/gifts).



> J -- the irony is that this story was always yours; you posted something back in May that made this take root, and I wasn't quite sure how to grow it into a fruit-bearing story, but here we are now. You probably have some idea of who wrote this now, reveal or no, but regardless, I do hope you like the story, lovely, even if it's a bit on the sappy side. Thanks to S for being a total babe about this story and cheerleading the fact that it wasn't worth binning on the weirdness of my André POV alone.
> 
> Title's from Awolnation's "Handyman" because I have no taste in music but desperately love the sentiment of that song.
> 
> Content warnings are at the end.

André gets the text while he’s still walking around the Dodaine with his mother and Max, and he waits until she’s distracted by a patch of exceedingly lovely blooming tulips; they’re wine-dark double lates, which are odd enough in their own right. They seem to have been corralled around some stonework, but the gardner was smart and opted to prune them to an effect of genuine wilderness -- a touch of madness in their scattered arrangement.

It’s captivating enough that he almost forgets he actually hates tulips, until Max makes a lunge at a nearby squirrel, and oh _right_ \-- his phone. He fishes it out of his back pocket, glancing over his shoulder at his mother who’s crouched now and thoroughly engrossed in positioning her Rollieflex at eye-level with a particularly aberrant tulip, and then glances down.

 _I’m flying to Berlin early_ , from Jean-Éric.

 _So?_ he writes back, knowing full well he’s being a bit impolite.

 _So you’d better be there early too bastard_ comes the reply too quickly for it not to make André want to grin.

 _I can’t_ he offers back, looking up for a second to make sure he’s not about to get an earful for being on his phone during designated mother-son time, but his mother has progressed to chastising a fairly unconcerned sparrow over ruining her shot. _I’m busy._

 _You’re more difficult that you’re worth sometimes you know that_ comes the slightly cryptic reply, and André’s irritatingly bored with where the conversation is potentially going in a way that means he’s actually kind of annoyed with Jev, so he decides they’re done talking for the time being and pockets his phone again.

“I need to borrow your hands, love,” calls his mother not half a second later. “This shit-awful depth of field --”

“We could always buy you a better camera,” André says, but it’s an old argument, her insistence on learning from and using only his dad’s old equipment feels like steps in a dance.

“I don’t want a better camera,” his mother says, on cue.

She looks up, cocking her eyebrow slightly, really _looking_ at him for a moment, and André feels -- exposed. But he stays still, steady under her gaze.

“There, the third flower, the one that has only two petals,” she says, finally, pointing.

André sees the one she means.

“Put your hand about an arm’s length further forward towards the lens, choupinet,” she says, once more transfixed by the view glass. “Perfect.”

André waits until he hears the shutter snap a handful of times, and then says: “I’m hungry,” even though he’s not actually hungry; he’s desperate the leave the park suddenly, and he’s at a loss for how else to ask.

“Then let’s go eat,” she says, looking up, the creases of her face softening and relenting the sharp focus from picture-taking.

They go to _Le Fournil_ because this is ultimately still supposed to be about celebrating her putting up with him for the last thirty-six years, and she hasn’t wavered once since he can remember in her insistence that their mattentart is the best in Nivelles. Truthfully, their pastries are uniformly pedestrian, and he finds their sit-down cafe profoundly sad in the worst of ways. He’s not going to bring that up now, however, not today. Contrary to popular opinion and half the Formula E grid on recent Twitter, he does actually know how to behave himself on the odd occasion. She kisses his cheek when they turn the corner and she realises where he’s taken them, and that’s enough for André. 

-

He agrees to grill for his mom and Lucien because he always agrees to grill for his mom on mother’s day and her birthday; she doesn’t even have to ask André anymore these days, it’s a given if he’s not racing. It winds up being them, plus Samir and the girl he’s dating since he’s in town doing something at Spa, and last-minute, his mother tells him four of his cousins are coming as well. They’ll run a little short on meat, but it’s fine despite being too many people for André’s personal level of comfort at the moment, mostly because everyone there knows enough about his moods to let him nurse his wine and cook the food in relative peace. Nobody seems to be aiming to stay past a comfortable post-meal digestif, and it works.

Samir parts with a squeeze of his shoulder.

“Thing about bad luck,” he says after a pause. “It doesn’t stick, it cycles.”

André supposes his friend means his last three races, and yeah, André’s been sort of peripherally aware that his mood’s been worse than normal, but he hadn’t realized he’d been acting sullen enough for Sam to comment on it.

“Oh who knows, really,” André grins. “Maybe it’s karma finally catching up with me.”

“You say that like you have some dramatic dogmatic debt to work off,” Sam snorts.

“Don’t I?” André says, trying to keep his tone light. “Kindness has never exactly been my style.”

Samir smiles at that, but there’s a probing quality to his gaze that André knows comes part and parcel with the way Samir’s learned to look at people -- perhaps as a by product of his work as a photographer, but more likely because seeing people is so important to him as person. He hesitates almost imperceptibly, before pulling at André by the grip he has on his shoulder and wrangles him into a one-armed embrace. “You’re kind when you can be, which is all the universe ever asks of anyone. Trust me on that.”

André tries not to let Sam’s words stick with him too long, something inside of him still very much deeply restless and disquieted to be entirely ready to move on and digest friendly encouragement. They’re the last to go, his mother having left twenty minutes earlier after making noises about being out past her bedtime. She’d been quick to leave, but not before bestowing two kisses apiece on either side of André’s face despite André sighing and making a noise in perfunctory complaint, Lucien looking off to the side and pretending not to smile.

The coals from the grill are still hot as he walks back outside to his yard, barefoot this time with Max at his heels. The dishes have been shifted to the dishwasher by his guests, so all that’s left to do is put the grill to bed, but André’s not quite ready to pack everything away yet -- the heat from the grill, the lingering smoke, and the smell of grease comforting. He’s got the skinny bottle of _mirabellenschnaps_ in his hand, and takes a sip from the bottle straight while wiggling his toes into the soft soil that’s been displaced by the feet of the grill. Max rocks into his legs, whining quietly, and André looks down to see him carrying a twig -- well, small branch, really -- half the size of him in his mouth expectantly, and after a moment, André snatches it away and tosses it as far down the lawn as he can manage watching Max rocket away after it.

André blinks, realizing he’s smiling involuntarily, and flattens the line of his mouth out into something more neutral while looking up at the sky. It’s overcast, bright bursts of stars shifting in and out of view as the haze of clouds obscures them however temporarily. He almost jumps when his phone starts to buzz in his pocket.

He pulls it out and looks at it, ignoring the brief bolt of concern that it could be his mother, that’s something’s genuinely wrong, which is a little unlike him -- Lucien hadn’t had anything to drink, André had been watching. He halts that train of thought abruptly and frowns, because it’s Jev calling. He spends a moment staring at his phone, still alive with the incoming call, reaching down to pet at Max absentmindedly as he slobbers into his leg, prize retrieved. He doesn’t wind up needing to make a decision; his phone falls dark, connection ended, before André can bring himself to either answer or ignore the call.

He thumbs his iPhone onto silent, before wrangling the stick from Max and throwing it back out into the woods, resolving to put the unwelcome reminder of his professional life out of mind for the rest of the night.

-

It’s barely six o’clock in the morning, when there’s a banging on his front door that startles Max away from the food André’s just set out for him.

He frowns, rubbing at his eyes. He hasn’t even done more than put on his silk bathrobe -- it’s too early for anyone to be at the door even for a Monday. Maybe his neighbor is up early working on the boat he’s been “almost done crafting” for the last four months, although --

There’s a steady, unmistakable thudding on his door again. And then the doorbell, to add injury to insult, making him wince even as he plods forwards towards the door to open it, Max following behind and emitting the occasional _wuff_ of a half-bark.

André pulls the door open to come face to face with an exceedingly chipper Jean-Éric, and really, after the call he didn’t answer last night, André should’ve expected this.

“Nice bathrobe,” Jev says, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline which is quite the feat. “Christmas gift from Rebellion?” 

“This is Versace,” André manages to still sound unimpressed despite his voice being rough from disuse, so he counts it as a win. He walks back into his kitchen, tying the waist of his robe tighter while contradicting his general attitude by leaving the door wide open and letting Max past him to enthusiastically slobber all over Jev’s shoes. “I hope the dog ruins your Berlutis.”

“I brought coffee,” Jean-Éric says, apparently opting to ignore André’s outburst while cooing at Max and enduring his tree-trunk of a tail beating his legs to a bruised mess.

It would figure Jev’s good with dogs, and the fact of it doesn’t do anything to improve André’s demeanor. “If that’s from anywhere in Charleroi, I don’t want it,” André says, opening his fridge just for an excuse not to have to look at the Frenchman.

“I flew into Brussles proper,” comes the sound of Jev’s voice from further inside of his living room, the click of the door shutting echoing shortly after. “It’s from _Aksum_.”

Jean-Éric walks up behind him, standing close enough that André’s aware of his presence just from radiant body heat. He should probably be doing something with the contents of his fridge to justify the fact that he’s been staring at the shelves for at least a full minute, so he pulls out brioche he set out to thaw last night, smoked herring, and a medley of pre-cut garlic scapes, chives, and mushrooms. There are eggs in a carton on the counter. Stepping back from the fridge means essentially pressing into Jean-Éric’s space, and while that’s usually André’s gambit, it’s not even properly morning and he’s too tired for unnecessary games.

“Can you move, please,” he says without turning, his voice rougher than he’d like.

“I’ll move if you take the coffee,” Jean-Éric says, sounding exceedingly reasonable.

Before André can point out he doesn’t have a free-hand to do so, Jev scoops up the bag of brioche in his other hand and nudges the still-warm paper cup into André’s now-vacant one. André takes the coffee because he doesn’t have a better reason not to.

Jev takes a step back, raising his hands placatingly as André turns to face him, rolling his eyes.

“Are you holding my bread hostage?” André asks.

“Only until you take a sip,” Jean-Éric says, shrugging.

André debates the pros and cons of simply pouring the entire thing down the drain to prove a point, but finds himself drinking the damn thing before his internal argument has even properly concluded itself.

“Good,” Jean-Éric nods. “Now you won’t burn our breakfast.”

“Our breakfast,” André says wryly, even as he takes a second, longer drink of the coffee (latte, extra shot of espresso, and Jev’s used honey to sweeten it which is disgusting mostly because André _likes_ it). “I’m feeding uninvited guests now.”

“I brought you coffee,” Jean-Éric scoffs, easing himself into one of the tall kitchenette chairs after tossing his small blue duffle on the floor. “It’s only polite.”

-

André’s not going to ask why Jean-Éric’s here. He decides this while he’s making their omelettes. He’s counting on his teammate being terminally unable to keep his plans to himself, or for him to simply outright tell him -- and either way, they both have to be in Berlin in three and a half days, so life will sort this out even if André doesn’t. 

“Do you have hot sauce?” Jev asks before he’s even put a forkful of his eggs into his mouth.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that,” André says loftily, side-eyeing Jev as he turns to open the morning paper.

“I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no,” Jev replies.

“If you want to put hot sauce on an omelette,” André sighs. “Go to a diner where you can pay for the pleasure of murdering a perfectly good breakfast.”

“I still can’t tell if that’s a yes or no,” Jev continues on, and so André kicks him.

Jean-Éric retaliates by throwing half his roll at André’s head which André manages to catch it without looking. “More for me, thanks so much.”

He dips it into his coffee before Jean-Éric can complain, and grins at the irritated noise his teammate makes as he sullenly cuts into his eggs.

“This is good,” Jev says a few seconds later. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Makes my kitchen too messy,” André explains. “So I generally prefer not to. But yes, I can cook.”

“I feel privileged then,” Jean-Éric says, clearly aiming for teasing.

André looks up over the edge of his newspaper and meets Jean-Éric’s gaze, and it’s not -- there’s something going on here, there’s a reason Jean-Éric’s here other than simple boredom or the desire to bother André, and damn it all, but André’s absolutely _not_ going to ask.

“Well,” André demures, turning on the charm _just_ a little bit. “You did bring me very good coffee.”

-

He wastes half a moment on the thought of not inviting Jev out to the track with him, but André can acknowledge there’s a difference between being satisfyingly petty and just plain mean.

“Do you need to shower?” he asks, gathering the plates and utensils up from the table. “Because if you don’t, you’ll be better off showering after, we’re going to be getting dirty.”

Jean-Éric looks slightly startled, but he regroups quickly enough. “After what? I think I’m fine as I am.”

André grins broadly, ignores Jev’s question, and resists the obvious joke even as the other man looks like he might be starting in on a blush. “Good. You bring a pair of boots, or do you need to borrow some?”

“I have boots,” Jean-Éric replies slowly, and André can see his curiosity rearing its mercurial head.

“Grab them and meet me in the garage, we’re taking the truck,” André says turning to load the dishwasher, not bothering to see if Jean-Éric’s doing as asked.

-

Max drools on Jean-Éric most of the way there, which seems to disgust him slightly but apparently not enough to get him to push the dog into the back seat; André just laughs every time he looks over and sees all 49 kilos of dog sitting attentively in the other man’s lap.

“Where are we going?” Jean-Éric asks, but seems relatively unconcerned with the answer.

“Chérimont,” André answers. 

“How far is it?”

“Maybe twenty minutes east of Charleroi,” André guesses. “Depends on traffic. Put on the radio.”

Jev struggles to reach the knobs around Max, but manages, glaring at André ever so slightly, and switches the thing to a satellite radio station that seems to be dedicated entirely to shit like Woodkid, Feu! Chatterton, fucking Benjamin Biolay -- his _mother_ listens to Benjamin Biolay, honestly -- and other presumably pseudo-trendy bands. It’s not André’s cup of tea at all, but he’s carrying a certain energy with him now that they’re out of the house that makes him more agreeable than he’s been otherwise this morning, mostly because of what the trip east promises.

“What’s in the back?” Jean-Éric says, gesturing at the tarped shape ratchet-strapped to the bed of the truck.

“You’ll see,” André smiles.

-

“You’ve never raced buggies?” André asks, genuinely shocked. “Like, ever?”

“Never ever,” Jev confirms, running his hand across the cage bars. 

“I didn’t realize you were _that_ much of a city kid,” André says, bemused.

Jean-Éric seems mildly embarrassed at that, and shrugs. “I had unlimited karting time on the track my dad owned, and then Red Bull happened, and they got very picky about what you were allowed to do with your free time.”

“And you wanted to be a good boy, hmm,” André guesses.

“I was young,” Jean-Éric offers, although it’s not any kind of real insight or answer.

He looks up, eyes almost glittering from the bay overheads. It makes him look hungry in a way André can appreciate on both an emotional and an aesthetic level. He steps a little closer to the other man, even as Jev bites his lip and says: “I want to drive.”

“I’ll bet,” André says. “But me first. I promise I’ll make it exciting though.”

“I wasn’t worried you wouldn’t,” Jean-Éric says, sliding on his sunglasses and hoping into the passenger seat with an ease of motion that André isn’t particularly shy about appreciating. “C’mon old man, let’s see what you can do.”

André glances lazily at Jev, making a show of dragging his eyes up his teammate’s body -- Jean-Éric’s wearing an uncharacteristically plain ensemble, browns and olive and denim with the latter being likely the most expensive thing he’s wearing. Jev’s watching André watch him from behind blackout tinted sunglasses, and André makes a show of maintaining his gaze even as he climbs into the buggy and settles in behind the wheel.

“What?” Jev finally asks.

“You should’ve worn something a little less,” André pauses, considering his words and taking the opportunity to run his fingers along the deep vee of the brilliantly white t-shirt Jev’s picked as a base layer. “Unsullied. It rained Saturday, you’re going to get filthy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time getting filthy in a car with you,” Jev grins. “Whatever, I’ll wash it. This thing has a windshield, how bad can it be?”

André laughs, genuinely amused.

-

They’re both covered in mud before the halfway mark of the loop, Jev elbowing André in the side every time he spots a more precarious way across a stream or a rocky outcropping, second-hand driving in a way that ought to be absurdly trying but --

“Come on, come on -- I can see the top of some rocks, you can totally cross it André,” Jean-Éric cajoles. “Don’t be a chicken-shit --”

“It’s too deep,” André reaffirms for the second time, even as he rolls his eyes and turns the wheel; he’s not going to be the one pitching a fit about having to stand around sopping wet until they can get a tow in a few minutes. “But why not, I could go for a swim.”

He creeps forwards until he’s got the wheels as best aligned with where he remembers the stones being. He turns to look at his teammate -- the giddiness still radiating off Jev from the passenger seat infectious -- wiggles his eyebrows, and yells “Banzai!” before gunning it.

They almost make it, Jev whooping like it’s an amusement park ride. The last set of stones hits the tires wrong -- he feels his front right slip off and spin uselessly even as it forces his backend to land short and tip the buggy passenger-side into the water. It happens in relatively slow-motion, so Jean-Éric is even afforded the time for comically dismayed groan before getting pitched up to his waist in rainwater. The auto cut-off kills the engine, and André tries to help a flailing Jev with his harness, but it’s hard when André’s almost cramping from laughter.

“It’s fucking cold,” Jean-Éric sputters. “I think I have a beetle in my hair.”

“It’s a twig, stop fucking squirming, you’re as slippery as an eel --”

“It’s crawling on me, it’s not a goddamn twig --”

“It’s not crawling on you,” André stops what he’s doing with the center release to grab Jean-Éric by the chin firmly. Jean-Éric doesn’t pull away but huffs -- _actually_ huffs -- as he holds still and André fishes the offending greenstick with leaves out from Jev’s collar where it was tickling the nape of his neck. He holds it up between the two of them, feels Jev relax in his grip even as he tosses it away into the water. André -- could probably let Jean-Éric go any time now, but finds himself stuck, eye contact running long, before Jean-Éric’s eyes crease and he starts to giggle.

“It was too deep,” Jean-Éric admits.

“Eh, we almost made it,” André shrugs, as Jean-Éric loosens his harness enough to start climbing out of the cage. “I’m a little rusty. Second pass, I could probably put us over no problem.”

“Hey, I want to race you,” Jean-Éric says, as they stumble up the bank and André fishes out the walkie-talkie the tech back at the garage furnished them with.

“Get stuck in water as a passenger half-way through the enduro course, now he wants to race me,” André says, mostly to himself, even as he keys up and gives their location along with a short letter-number code designed to indicate they’re in the water and need a simple tow.

“Yeah, I mean, now that I’ve scouted your driving skills,” Jean-Éric explains. “I actually feel like I might have a fighting chance.”

André makes a show of releasing the talk button on the walkie, even as he has to try and tamp down on what wants to be a feral grin.

 

“It’s gonna be like that, huh?” André says, lifting up his sunglasses to squint at Jev.

He knows Jean-Éric’s trying to wind him up, but he makes a living driving race cars and gets paid very well for it; he didn’t get to this point in his life backing down from challenges, no matter how frivolous. Jev grins and responds: “Oh, it’s going to be like that.”

“OK then hotshot, let’s see if they have a spare,” André nods, and gets back on the radio.

-

It’s almost no time at all before a boxy utility vehicle with more than its fair share of dings and dents rolls up along the bank of the river, the neon orange lettering on the side of the door disclaiming it as belonging to site facilities. André’s pretty sure he’s only imagining that the route the truck takes is deliberately lazy, however it makes the sight of a young, sunburnt man with a backwards cap over a shock of short black hair hopping out of the driver’s seat even less surprising than it might’ve been otherwise. The kid wipes his hands on his cargo shorts as he walks up to where André and Jev are sitting on a pile of rocks and pays more attention to the way the buggy is sticking out of the water than the men he’s approaching, sticks his hand out for André to shake without averting his gaze.

“Carlton,” André says warmly, and continues in English. “I didn’t realize you were working. A bit early in the season for you, no?”

“I’m here full-time now, actually,” the kid shrugs; his reedy Kiwi twang matches the too-dark bronze patchwork of skin left uncovered by his shirt, shorts, and boots. “Got the visa and everything.” 

“Lucky us,” André comments, meaning it wholeheartedly.

“You almost made it, huh?” Carlton confirms, finishing his survey of the vehicle in the stream as Jean-Éric lets a poorly contained snort free. “No worries, I can get you out in a sec. Since you’re already wet, you mind securing the buggy to the winch line?”

André nods and goes to take the rope and hook from Carlton, but the man tosses the equipment at a surprised-looking Jev who’s standing slightly closer to the buggy before André can stop him. Jev lets the hook fall short, watching it with a detached sort of fascination as it plunks into the mud in front of him, and then glances up at Carlton with an imperious air as if to confirm, despite all that, he means _he_ should wade back out into the stream to hook the buggy up for the tow.

“He does speak English, doesn’t he?” Carlton asks, barely changing his inflection before repeating himself in passable French, if all New Zealander vowels.

“Yes,” Jev cuts him off half-way, sounding annoyed while reaching for the hook. “Yes, god, I speak English.”

André tries very hard not to laugh as his teammate practically flounces over to the upturned buggy in a huff, but despite his outward attitude, hooks everything up with a concentrated efficiency.

“Go ahead, it’s attached,” Jev calls out, and Carlton climbs into the truck, puts the winch into reverse, and carefully tows the buggy up the bank -- Jean-Éric half-climbing into the driver’s seat to steer it as it’s pulled.

“Hey, so,” Carlton continues conversationally as he detaches everything from both vehicles. “If you can get your 4x4 back to the garage in one piece, I had the boys start prepping the best Can-Am we’ve got available right now -- fresh suspension and everything.”

He waves in the direction of André’s vehicle. “It’s obviously not as nice as your Nomad, but -- on short notice and all.”

“No, that’s fine,” André agrees. “Besides, I’ll be the one driving the borrowed vehicle.”

Carlton whistles, eyeing Jev and raising an eyebrow. “You’re letting him drive your baby?”

André wishes, suddenly, that Carlton hadn’t chosen to make this seem like some sort of massive concession. He licks his lips, adjusting his sunglasses. “Well, you know, no sense in handicapping the rookie, even if his balls have suddenly swelled to the size of melons --”

“It’s not hard to be bold when you can’t even cross a piddly little stream without putting it in the run-off,” Jean-Éric shrugs.

“Just try not to maul any of the poor vacationers just here to have a good time, alright?” Carlton sighs. “They’re all paying the exact same amount as you to use this family-friendly off-road course.”

“No promises,” André says almost at exactly the same time as Jean-Éric as they climb back into André’s buggy, making Carlton grimace even as they share a conspiratorial grin. 

-

The trip back to base seems lightening fast. André watches Jev check over all the controls in André’s 4x4, asking direct questions about anything not immediately clear to him. He spends time adjusting the seat, straps, and mirrors with an incredible amount of care and concentration for what’s supposed to just be a friendly few laps around the yard.

André never really imagined Jev to be the type of man to do anything by halves, but it’s still oddly compelling to see it exercised over something so ultimately trivial. Jean-Éric catches André watching him, and André’s not entirely sure of what’s showing on his face.

“You sure you want to let me use your baby?” Jean-Éric asks, adopting Carlton’s choice of moniker, and it’s softly mocking but a serious question all the same.

“I trust you,” André says, his mouth apparently making decisions without his brain’s say-so, and so he hastily adds a “to take good care of her,” in a bid for clarification.

“I’m flattered,” Jean-Éric says, a small smile creeping on to his face too genuine for André too look at for long. “No blaming your chivalrous choice when you lose though, or else let’s switch cars now.”

“The only way you’re winning this,” André says, standing and patting Jev’s shoulder a little too aggressively to be considered entirely friendly. “Is if I lose all four tires before the finish line.”

“I am amenable to bribes, by the way,” Carlton calls in French from where he’s checking the nuts on the the tires of their rental. “But they’ll have to be more than André’s tips, and he tips well.”

-

Jev loses, but not by much, and he’s like a livewire when he clammers out of the buggy and tugging at André’s clothes and at his hair, handsy like he’s podiumed, demanding “rematch, rematch, one more time --”

André indulges him of course, how can he not?

-

They’re both tired and sore by the time they have André’s Nomad hosed down, covered, and secured on the bed of his truck, the day paid for, and Carlton and crew taken care of. When Jean-Éric makes to move for the stereo knob, André reaches out and squeezes his hand gently to stop him.

Jean-Éric looks at him, confusion and curiosity coloring his face, and André sighs. “Hey, could we maybe not? Listen to anything on the way home?”

“You won’t fall asleep?” Jev asks, slightly concerned.

“I have you to keep me awake, no?” André grins, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“You have me to keep you distracted,” Jev smirks, while turning their hands over to run his thumb over the inside of André’s wrist in a series of slowly hypnotizing lines. The distinction helps clarify a few things for André, specifically about what may or may not be on the table for later on tonight. “Which won’t help you drive. But hey if you want, I saw a rest stop on the way here, you could always pull over and let me take care of you if you’re that desperate to get your mind off things.”

“Not a bad idea,” André says, meeting Jev’s eyes for long enough that the Frenchman starks squawking about road safety again, so he grins, turns back to the road while dropping his hand into Jev’s lap as much as he’s able to over the unnecessarily broad console separating them. “But I’d rather wait till we’re home.”

Jev lifts their hands and brushes his lips over André’s knuckles, making André’s breath catch. This is all a little strange for him; this whole day has been making him reel slightly when he’s let himself stop long enough to think about it. After all, up till now during race weeks, Jean-Éric’s always been the one dancing the line of casual flirting; the first time he actually got his hands on Jev for real, in Punta del Este, was mostly because André was just fed-up with passing off the heat between them as a joke and had pushed back. They’d both allowed the escalation because it had felt right -- like being allowed to release drop a restrictive engine mode after hours of being forced to play it safe. This now, Jean-Éric showing up in his space instead of waiting to be invited along, Jean-Éric offering things directly, boldly, instead of waiting for André to seek it out? It’s tripping him up and making him feel something close to unsure in a way that feels almost… inexperienced. It’s irritating, not really feeling sure of his footing, but also helplessly thrilling in a way he knows he’s prone to pursuing.

“I’m perfectly happy being patient,” Jean-Éric shrugs, before lightly dragging his teeth down the ridge of skin and knuckle to press his lips to where the inside of André’s wrist is already overly sensitive from Jev’s fingers.

André doesn’t say anything to that, but can’t stop his forearms from breaking into gooseflesh even as he redoubles his efforts to keep his eyes on the road ahead of him.

-

André’s thumbing in the code to the garage-to-house door, the “beeps” of the keypad eliciting a round of excited yelping from Max inside, when his phone begins to ring in his back pocket. He doesn’t need the added confirmation of Pink Floyd crooning _mother, do you think they’ll like this song, mother do you think they’ll break my balls_ to know it’s his mom calling because it’s 10:48pm on a Monday and she’s one of about two people who’d be calling him right now, all time zones considered. Jev’s the other, and is presently staring daggers at him with both hands full of their dirty clothes and daypacks, plainly annoyed André’s not opening the door faster. With a roll of his eyes, André swings the door open for Jean-Éric and nimbly steps out of the way of Max who torpedos himself out into the garage and knocks Jev off-balance. André pretends not to notice that’s happened while stepping inside his kitchen and plucking the phone out of his pants to to answer it.

“Yes mom, what is it?”

“I made reservations for breakfast in the morning, but don’t worry they’re not too early -- noon at LOLI.”

“That’s lunch, not breakfast,” André sighs, tossing the keys to the truck into the bowl designated for that purpose on the counter closest to the garage.

If they really need to be out of the house that early, he honestly ought to drive the truck down to the garage now to offload the buggy or he won’t get it done until Wednesday night at the earliest; André isn’t inherently prone to laziness, but if he doesn’t do things as scheduled he just as often never does them at all.

“You want I should just dump these into the washing machine now?” Jev asks as he finally makes it inside himself after giving up on trying to coax Max back into the house without the appropriate bribe of treats or toys.

“Yeah,” André nods and gestures down the hall. “Blue slatted doors, the green detergent is good for mud specifically.”

Which reminds him -- “Will they care if we add an extra person to the reservation?” he asks into the phone after a few seconds of politely interested silence from his mother.

“You bringing someone with you, André?” his mother asks, in _that_ tone of voice, and boy but some things really don’t change no matter if you’re sixteen, twenty-six, or thirty-six.

André grimaces and rubs at his eyes. “Maybe, I’m not sure yet. Depends if he has plans.”

“Mmm,” she says. “I can’t imagine they’d have much of an issue, I eat there often enough. Don’t let him dress like a slob if he does come, I have a reputation to maintain.”

“When was the last time I had friends who didn’t know how to dress?” André snorts.

“Loic, Benôit, your birthday, Joël Robuchon at the Yebisu Garden Palace --”

“-- when we were twenty-two, mom, seriously,” André sighs. “I’d like to think I’ve come a long way since twenty-two.”

“Are you talking about me? My nose was itching,” Jean-Éric asks as he reenters the kitchen and steals a handful of hazelnuts from the bowl of them on the breakfast bar.

André looks up at him even as he lifts a hand to shush him, and in his other ear his mother clucks and comments: “He has a nice voice, your friend, but he sounds awfully _parigot_.”

“Oh really? I’ll tell him you said that,” André says grinning through his mother’s subsequent protests. “Goodnight!”

As he hits the end button on his phone, he supposes she could consider his abrupt departure from the call André hanging up on her, but she knows what kind of son she raised; he’s not particularly concerned about her taking it poorly. He turns his phone on silent and then places it carefully face down on the counter. He hears the water rush through the pipes overhead as the washing machine begins to fill, and finds himself looking away from where Jean-Éric’s perched to stare at the clock on the wall. André finds himself struggling with the sudden urge to avoid everything -- the unanswered reason as to Jev’s sudden choice to visit, the call to easy affection that felt so fluid all day -- rising up and seeping through the cracks in his good humor.

“You know,” Jean-Éric says, cutting off André’s intrusive thought process. “I’ll be OK for tomorrow, but I do actually need to go shopping for clothes.”

“What?” André says, as startled by Jean-Éric’s interruption as he is the content of his slightly embarrassed admission. “Why, did the airline lose your luggage?”

“No, I didn’t bring any -- ever since I flew into Nantes one time and the airline lost half my clothes, I try to only pack hand-luggage,” Jean-Éric explains, and André looks up at him in time to catch a weirdly apologetic half-shrug. “Unless I’m flying to a race, you know.”

“Didn’t you bring your large Keepall?” André asks, puzzled. The bright blue of it stuck in his mind from this morning -- for all Jean-Éric tends towards neutral-colored clothing, some of his accessories are surprisingly vivacious.

“Yes,” Jev admits slowly, dragging the word out. “But I didn’t use it to pack clothes -- or well, I didn’t use it to _just_ pack clothes.”

André narrows his eyes, as Jev walks over to the fridge and pulls out two large foiled-wrapped bottles that most definitely were not there last night.

“You decided to pack champagne instead of a proper pair of pants?” André asks, laughing incredulously. “We may not have the culture of your beloved _Paname_ but we do have wine shops in Wallonia, I promise.”

“Please,” Jev says, the scorn in his voice audible. “I decided to pack two bottles of extremely good _crémant_ instead of a proper pair of pants.”

“You’re ridiculous,” André says.

“You say that now,” Jean-Éric sniffs. “But this is very good crémant. Totally worth not bringing pants.”

“If we’re drinking, it’s your responsibility to tell me to go to the garage before bed tomorrow,” André sighs, realizing he’s pretty much agreeing to whatever scheme Jev’s hamfistedly trying to execute. “I can’t leave the buggy until Wednesday or it’ll be a bitch to do maintenence on.”

“Siri,” Jev says while thumbing his phone from his pants pocket, and what _really_ does Jev actually use -- “Remind me to tell André to put his toy back in the garage tomorrow afternoon.”

His phone chirps to his satisfaction, and André watches him slide it back into place. Jev seems momentarily taken aback by whatever is coloring André’s expression.

“Look it’s not my fault you don’t use your phone to its full potential,” Jev shrugs. “I’m shocked most days you don’t still have a flip-phone.”

André actually misses his old Nokia but he’s not going to say that outloud. “I got the new iPhone because of the megapixel resolution on its front-facing camera, not because I’m too lazy to use my fingers.”

“I’m not too lazy to use my fingers,” Jev says with a smile. ”I’m just trying to put them to better use at the moment --” and snatches up a dishtowel even as he tucks the bottle under his arm and undoes the last bit of wire keeping the cork in place.

André knows they shouldn’t do this -- or at least, that he shouldn’t do this. He’s tired, for one, and neither of them had anything approaching actual dinner, which no matter how large their breakfast was means a whole bottle of bubbly between just the two of them will turn into a bit of a mess. It’s also a good way of avoiding the minefield between whatever they’ve been doing at races which is firmly, easily casual in a way that never really needed discussion, and this here in André’s fucking kitchen. André has a guest room, sure, but he’s used it three times exactly for that purpose in the ten years he’s owned this house. People don’t visit him here.

“Where are your glasses?” Jev asks hovering over the sink, attention mostly devoted to uncorking the bottle without too much spillover.

“Windowed cabinet, right side by the double oven,” André says instead of _I’m too tired_ , or _let’s just go to bed_ , or _what the hell are we doing_.

There’s a crisp pop, and a very small splash, and then Jev dancing his way over to the designated glass stash to pluck two thin-necked flutes from their resting spots. He seems more robust, more animated in a way that he doesn’t always have the energy to be when he’s out at races. André’s seen glimpses of this Jean-Eric before, during the pre-season photoshoot in Hong Kong, fucking around with Da Costa in the pool at the timeshare in Punta del Este, in the moments before going to sleep on long-haul flights, in his Instagram stories from Paris with his sister. But it’s always been like a strobe, on-and-off, the Frenchman moody as often as relaxed. He’s never been privy to this much of it all at once. André wants to know why he gets to have this, why now, but he honestly doesn’t know how to put the words together to get the answer he’s looking for. He’s always been so happy for the glimpses, enjoyed the game of getting them out of the younger man, that so much of that same free-flowing upbeat energy is a kind of shocking overload. _Does racing really make you so unhappy_ he almost wants to ask, but André knows that’s not quite it either.

Jean-Éric hands him a glass, the surface cloudy with condensation, and André takes it. Jev clinks the one he’s kept for himself lightly against the edge of André’s, and offers a rather pointed _santé_ before necking his entire glass.

Which -- alright then. André takes a careful sip of his, and really he shouldn’t actually be surprised that it’s _extremely_ good crémant, but that just makes Jean-Éric’s choice to down the entire glass even stranger. At least until Jean-Éric looks up from where he’s pouring himself another and says:

“Ask me, go on.”

“Ask you what,” André says, voice flat.

“Fuck off with that, you know what,” Jev snorts, not meeting André’s gaze but rather staring at the pale liquid he’s swirling around inside of his glass.

André hesitates for long enough that Jean-Éric seems to have decided to make away with his second glass much like his first, but as he goes to do so, André puts his glass down a little harder than necessary on the counter, relieved when the base doesn’t crack on the marble, and says. “I don’t know how to.”

“You don’t know how to ask me why I came to visit?” Jev asks sounding almost amused, glass in hand instead of at his lips.

“Why did you come to visit then, Jev?” André gets out, even managing to avoid making it sound overly angsty thanks in part to taking an extremely healthy swig of his own glass just to avoid choking on the question.

“You seemed like you needed the company,” Jev explains calmly, like this hasn’t been hanging over the two of them like some strange weather since he showed up early this morning.

“You could’ve asked if I wanted you to come,” André starts, but stops because Jev is finishing his drink and walking towards him with some intent.

“You would’ve said no,” Jean-Éric says, completely confident of the truth of his declaration.

André wants to argue, mostly because he doesn’t like anyone sounding that sure about what he might or might not have done, but Jean-Éric is also absolutely correct; if he’d asked for permission to come bother him at home, André would have said no without even stopping to think about it.

“So what, better to ask forgiveness than permission?” André says, trying to keep things lighthearted.

“Taking a leaf out of your rule book on this one,” Jean-Éric grins, and then closes the remaining distance between the two of them.

He leans in like he’s angling for a kiss but stops short opting to nuzzle at André face instead, their mouths brushing as Jean-Éric says, “You can always throw me out, André. Nothing’s stopping you.”

And that is the crux of it, isn’t it. André’s had every opportunity to tell Jean-Éric his presence is unwanted, had months to do something other than allow for a deepening intimacy, but he hasn’t. Despite the notion circling back on him like a broken record skipping, André finds himself admitting that it’s not that simple.

Jean-Éric leans back a little ways, leveling André with a shrewd look before taking his glass away from him, declaring: “That reminds me, I believe I owe you a distraction, no?” and drinking the dregs of that as well.

“At this rate you might as well start drinking from the bottle and open up the second one for me,” André says, a little ruder than he means to be but starting to verge on being scandalized by teammate’s behavior.

Jev just rolls his eyes, and grabs André’s chin before pressing their mouths together, passing the slightly warm _Clos Liebenberg_ back to André along with the tease of an actual kiss, and André swallows, surprise making the whole thing sloppier than he’d prefer, some of the sparkling wine escaping to trickle down his chin and into the hollow of his collar bone. 

He opens his mouth to say something, god -- to complain maybe, but Jean-Éric just chases the trail of crémant down his chin with his tongue, lapping broadly at his neck, sucking at his collar where it’s soaked into his shirt. André needs to sit down. He wraps a hand around the back of Jean-Éric’s neck, running the pads of his fingers across the short hairs growing back a little faster than the rest of his undercut, and pulls, guiding the both of them over to the settee couch near the glass sliding door to his backyard. André lets memory guide his steps, waiting for the touch of fabric to the backs of his calves before attempting to guide Jev down on top of him as he sits.

Jean-Éric resists him slightly, untangling himself before explaining: “Shame to waste the bottle now that it’s open, I’ll be right back,” and leaving André to his couch with a kiss pressed to his fingers.

André stares at his hand a moment, and then looks out into the darkness of his garden. It’s quiet enough in the house now that he can hear the noises of the spring night filtering through the glass -- crickets, mostly, and the wind ruffling the newly green leaves on the clumps of deciduous trees separating his yard from the neighbors’. André almost wants to get up and go outside again like had last night, sit in the grass, stare at the stars, figure out how to make himself feel less off-balance. The fact that the feel of Jean-Éric’s mouth on his skin settles something in him similarly to the way he’d thought only dirt between his fingers and sun on his skin could seems surreal to André. His mind drifts back briefly to the way Jean-Éric had come alive in the woods while they were racing, the sheer childish delight and uncomplicated happiness set up against the cool comfort of muddy waters and green that couldn’t care less about the troubles of the people in their midst. 

“Hello,” Jean-Éric says, sliding on top of André’s lap, depositing the open bottle by their feet. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” André says, sliding his hands around Jean-Éric’s hips. “I’m still right here.”

“You were thinking of something -- something good, I think,” Jev says, and André realizes it’s not a question and looks up at him. Jev nods, like André’s said something, and lifts his hands to rub his thumbs along the edges of where his eyes meet his temples. “You get creases here, it’s -- usually when you’re feeling fond, but you’re trying not to smile that much.”

When did André let Jean-Éric get to know him so well? He can’t remember choosing to let it happen; André’s gripped with the dizzying sense that maybe their history has always been in the fabric of their lives, and has just been patiently waiting to catch up with them.

“What?” Jean-Éric asks again, voice softly puzzled.

André came into this whole electric nonsense entirely on guard and wary of it being able to speak to him the way he’s come to rely on motorsport being able to, wary of this man who’d spent years trying to reframe his narrative as a cast-off with varying degrees of success, all too ready to dismiss everything about the venture, his team, and his partner.

“Nothing,” André shakes his head. “I just like the way you feel in my hands,” he says, stroking his fingers upwards from where they were resting on Jev’s hips, palms pressing against the lean muscle of Jean-Éric’s rib cage.

He could never have imagined he’d want Jev here. André finds himself still struggling with the concept even as his body seems content to gravitate towards the frank vulnerability on offer in the slide of Jean-Éric’s body against his own. 

“That’s good,” Jev sighs, untucking his shirt for André, making it easier for him to get at the sensitive skin of his sides. “Because I’m quite fond of the way you touch me.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” André grins, pulling at the hair of Jean-Éric’s armpits just for the simple joy of eliciting a startled yelp.

“Not when you do that, asshole,” the Frenchman chastises, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“It pays to be specific,” André says, ducking to nose along Jev’s flank, peppering the sensitive skin with butterfly kisses, pushing the man’s shirt up around his shoulders and forearms without actually helping him free his arms after the fact. He opts instead to trail his fingers in the wake of his ministrations, fascinated enough to map out the braile of gooseflesh that appears.

“Fuck,” Jev bites out, trying to wrestle himself out of his shirt despite his sudden need to squirm. “I’m actually ticklish, this is --”

And André had wondered about the way Jev’s twitching and controlling the urge to twist away anytime he plays a little too lightly with his touch along the other man’s sides. He kisses a spot over a patch of freckles, and then bites down, wrapping his other hand around the man’s waist in anticipation of him --

“Shit,” Jean-Éric hisses, jolting forwards in André’s lap.

He’s licking at the bite when Jev finally manages to free himself from his shirt, a fact announced by the man’s hands tugging at André’s hair and shoulders more so than soft punctuation of the shirt crumpling against the side of one of his bookcases. André lets himself be guided up for the kiss Jean-Éric is firmly demanding, easily losing himself in the exchange and feel of the man’s bare chest against his own skin where his shirt’s gotten pulled out of shape.

They neck like teenagers, something appealing in the simple, unpretentious contact, that despite its relative innocence builds on the crawling need burrowing into the open spaces between their bodies. It’s Jean-Éric who pulls back for air first, laughing slightly, burying his face in André’s hair as he leans more of his weight forwards onto André’s frame. André shifts their hips slightly, unwilling to remove his hand from Jev’s waist or Jev himself from his lap. The small movement is enough of an adjustment to allow him the reach to collect the bottle of crémant and bring it to his lips. He drinks, feeling a bit dehydrated and a little greedy for it, not really upset at spilling some onto his shirt which has just about had it anyway and needed to come off five minutes ago when they were still kissing. Jean-Éric’s hands on his face interrupt him, and at first André thinks he’s trying to get the bottle from him, but he’s pushing it out of the way to lick at the spillover again, and --

“There’s still some left in the bottle you know,” André says, half-laughing in attempt to cover the noise Jev’s tongue on his skin is trying to wrench out of him.

“Tastes better like this,” Jean-Éric says, and André expects it to be delivered with a grin or with some sort of teasing tone to his voice, but he’s serious; Jean-Éric doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing, moving down to suck at the hollow of André’s throat, pulling at the collar of his shirt, impatient for access to more of André’s skin.

“Christ,” André mutters into Jean-Éric’s hair and closes his eyes for a minute before shifting his hands to wrap under Jev’s thighs. He rocks up, tensing his stomach, lifting them both as he stutters into a standing position while hoisting Jean-Éric up and against him in a reverse piggyback. His back protests mildly, but Jev’s not that heavy, hell -- Jev barely lifts his head at the movement, only stopping to ask:

“Where are we going?” Before grinning a little at André’s curt declaration: “To my bedroom,” as he continues to mouth sloppily at André’s collar and chest.

The master bedroom spans both floors, a staircase in the room leading to a top cubby that André has set up with haphazard stacks of records and books, a couple of large format photographic prints he has yet to hang-up, and access to the bathroom of course. The bed itself is on the ground floor, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that span the entire length of the back of the house and look out onto the woods, moonlight now spilling in and dipping everything in the room in a grey monochrome. He deposits Jean-Éric onto his sheets without ceremony, breaking their contact but crawling onto the bed on his knees after him. André pushes Jev back down onto his back when he sits up and reaches for André, tutting slightly.

“Stay,” André commands before working the fabric of his own shirt over his head, tossing it in the direction of a hamper visible at the edge of the room.

Jean-Éric leans back on his elbows and watches him, eyes skimming bare skin of André’s chest in a way that makes André want to preen. André squares his shoulders a little in a way he knows will flex and shift the muscles of his chest and abs, tries not to smile as he makes eye contact with Jev even as he drops his hands to undo his fly.

“See something you like?” André teases.

“Yes,” Jean-Éric answers, biting his lip, straightforward in a way that’s bluntly appealing.

André smirks, tucking his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans to shuck them off as he sits and then swings his legs forwards. The pants follow the path of his discarded shirt, and when he turns back to face Jean-Éric naked, the other man has a goofy grin helplessly cast onto his face, making André smile in return out of pure reflex.

“What?” André asks.

“No underwear?” Jev questions.

“Are you complaining?” André says instead of explaining he hadn’t counted on getting so thoroughly soaked through at the castle course; he’d brought a change of shirt and pants, but why bother with the underwear?

“Definitely not,” Jean-Éric clarifies, voice catching in a way that reminds André that he’s actually quite hard already.

He wraps a hand lazily around himself, nodding at Jean-Éric’s pants. “Hurry up and get naked,” he adds, since it’s possible Jev took his direction not to move more all-encompassingly than simply as a request not to distract André from disrobing himself.

As Jean-Éric moves to comply, he leans over and fishes lube and a condom out of his bedside table, tossing the condom on the bed and uncapping the lube, covering his fingers liberally while watching the lines of Jev’s legs and back as he twists himself around in the short struggle to divest himself of his skinny-cut pants. The second he has both legs free, André scoots forwards and pushes his knees back and apart with his free hand, waiting for Jev’s slightly startled and anticipatory body language to fall away in the face of the realization of what he’s actually doing.

André doesn’t have to wait long, although he might help Jean-Éric’s eurkea moment along slightly when he winces because sure, it’s been a while since he fingered himself and maybe he should’ve waited a little longer to switch to two fingers, but this is also actually bad fucking angle --

“Wait, wait --” Jev says suddenly. “Wait are you, to yourself --”

“Yes,” André grits out, jumping slightly when Jean-Éric’s fingers drift back to confirm what he’s doing, grazing where he’s slick and stretched around two fingers.

“Oh fuck,” Jean-Éric says, glancing up to meet André’s eyes, and he’s obviously surprised but there’s something else there, and André suppresses the urge to shiver as Jev’s fingers become bolder and add a teasing pressure to where he’s already trying to accommodate his own. “You should let me, it’s no good for your wrist like this.”

“No,” André says shaking his head. “No, I need to do this.”

And if he expects an argument, Jean-Éric doesn’t offer him one; Jev nods after a second, shifting his hand up to massage at the underside of where André’s forearm is straining to twist his wrist the way he needs it to go in order to fuck into himself at a good enough depth. His fingers digging into the sore tendons cause André to hiss a little, but he starts moving again, trying to focus on what he’s doing, Jean-Éric’s careful touch anchoring him slightly when he might otherwise be tempted to listen to his nerves and discard his plan for them here all together.

He doesn’t make himself spend much time on prepping once he can manage three fingers; the reality of this is André knows he’ll be sore no matter what in the morning. This isn’t usually what he prefers to do and he hasn’t planned for it -- hadn’t expected to want it, hadn’t -- André sighs, focuses on his breathing for a second, before removing his fingers, Jean-Éric releasing his hold and shifting his grip to André’s hip. André looks down and is pleased to find Jev has been keeping himself usefully occupied, his other hand smoothing down the skin of his cock to grip at the base, now fully hard between watching André and teasing himself.

André tears the condom open, and Jean-Éric lets him put in on, thrusting up once at the pressure of André’s hands; André grins, using both hands to jerk him off for a few strokes before Jev is grabbing at his wrists and gasping, “do you want me to fuck you or not?”

“You better not come the second you get inside me,” André says, and he’s being obnoxious and mostly means it to tease because he has a bad habit of relying on sharp humor when he’s slightly nervous, but there’s a tense energy to Jean-Éric’s grip that has him slightly concerned.

“I’m not a teenager,” Jean-Éric says archly even if he is slightly breathless, and André decides to take him at his word; he scoots up so he’s kneeling over Jev, legs tucked under Jev’s thighs, takes Jean-Éric’s cock in hand and lowers himself down until he feels it push properly inside, and --

“Oh holy shit you’re tight,” Jev gasps out, and well, good, at least one of them can talk, because André is sweating and mostly trying to bear down and get them flush in slow, even rocking motions without having to stop or curse because it has been a long goddamn time, and this _hurts_.

He gets there faster than he imagined he would, probably rushing a bit just to get to a point where stopping a minute is an option. He uses both his hands to brace himself on Jev’s chest -- trusting the other man to complain if the compression is too much -- and just, tries to wait. It’ll get better, he knows it will, but fuck if it doesn’t burn right now. Jean-Éric is keeping his hips still as stone, scratching light, soothing circles into André’s sides and shoulder blades, and André’s a bit shocked to find it helps.

“Can I touch you?” Jean-Éric asks after a minute, and André would point out that he is already touching him, but finds himself nodding because it’s simpler and simple right now is good, and that’s enough permission for Jev to drop one hand to cradle his ass, the other -- Jev spits into it, but then -- circling to grip André’s flagging erection. The slick glide is good, great really, and it causes him to clench around Jean-Éric which gets a noise out of Jev who _still_ doesn’t move his hips, but it also accentuates the burn that had been receding for one sharp, awful moment until Jev rubs his thumb over the slit of his cock and the bright flare of pleasure that radiates from the touch blows whatever discomfort from the stretch he was having completely out of the water.

“Oh,” André says, feeling as struck dumb with sensation as he sounds.

He’d forgotten this happened, that his body compensated for discomfort like this, that the burn and ache made the good so much wildly, disproportionately better.

“I need to move,” he gets out after a few more strokes of Jean-Éric’s hand. “Say I can move.”

“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Jev replies, and André shakes his head, sitting back to grab Jev’s forearms and wrestle them above his head.

“I need to move,” André repeats, like that’s any kind of explanation, and then does, shifting his hips to rock forward and then fucking himself back on Jean-Éric’s cock, lowering himself down enough that he can thrust against Jev’s stomach to keep that essential spark of pleasure ricocheting through him.

Jean-Éric moans appreciatively, nudges at his face and bites at André’s lips so gently it’s almost a sweet sort of gesture -- and André tries, tries to chase after his own pleasure, works himself against Jean-Éric’s body almost feverishly, and Jean-Éric lets him, doesn’t fight the grip André has on his wrists, doesn’t try to fuck up into him or set any kind of pace, and André -- groans in frustration because it’s almost enough, it _should_ be enough, but this need inside of him has swelled and he can’t quite reach the precipice of it with the angles and the skin and the effort available to him, and he wants -- God, he wants --

“Hey,” Jean-Éric murmurs, kisses him for good measure, and all André can manage is a frustrated noise and the tacit permission for Jev to lick at his tongue. “Hey, let me.”

André wants to ask _let you what_ but Jean-Éric pulls out of where his grasp on his arms has loosened, and André doesn’t even fight it, isn’t even sure if he should as Jev wraps his arms around André’s chest and squeezes, nudging André’s head to the side to speak into quietly into the shell of his ear.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Jean-Éric says, kissing the side of André's jaw.

He's not asking for permission, André realizes sluggishly, and as André tries to reply, Jev bites André’s ear, plants his feet, and thrusts up into him. It’s exactly, _exactly_ what his body needs -- André’s toes curl, he feels his body go limp as Jev hits his prostate with slow, measured precision, and he’s pretty sure he makes some kind of embarrassing noise, his face flushing with an abrupt, stupid animal satisfaction, but he can’t really hear himself, he can’t keep his eyes open as he comes helplessly into the space between their bodies.

Jean-Éric thrusts a few more times, and then pulls out, the sudden emptiness and his general state of oversensitivity making André shudder, and André jumps slightly at the warmth and wetness of Jev’s come hitting his back as the man under him gasps.

André eventually gathers enough of himself back together to roll off Jev, who grunts in gratitude as he shifts to the other man’s side, trying to figure out if he’s actually going to lie back and smear the mess on him onto his warm-weather blanket or put up with the fact that while he’s on his side he really has no choice but to let Jev look him face-to-face. The fact that he’s suddenly also incredibly sleepy isn’t lending itself helpful to the tatters of his good judgement.

Jean-Éric is still breathing relatively hard, hand flung across his face. His breathing pattern might possibly be exacerbated by the fact that André had pretty much draped himself on Jev at the end there without much fanfare or relief, and he would feel kind of bad about that, but he figures they both got some pretty good orgasms out of the whole ordeal, so --

“We should shower, no?” Jev asks, and André realizes, blinking, that this possibly not the first time he’s said that as he’s turned to look André, eyebrows doing something concerned.

André grunts, wiggles his toes. “I could also just wash the sheets in the morning.”

“We stink,” Jean-Éric says, somewhat incredulously.

Which, sure, they definitely do, and the hot water might even help any residual morning soreness, but André just also really doesn’t give enough of a shit and wants to go to bed. It’s getting much too annoying to keep his eyes open or continue with this conversation.

“Do what you want then,” André shrugs, closes his eyes, and considers the conversation done. “Shower’s upstairs and there’s a toilet down here.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before André can feel Jean-Éric getting up, his soft footfalls on the wood floor audible in the profound silence of the bedroom. It’s not exactly cold, his house is too well insulated for that, but André finds himself shivering a little at the loss of the extra body heat that had been coming off Jev next to him before. He’s almost asleep when the dip of the bed next to him jolts him awake, and André blinks drowsily, making some kind of muffled noise into his arm when a warm washcloth touches his back.

“Hold still a minute,” Jean-Éric says, stroking the edge of his hairline, and so André closes his eyes again.

Jev cleans up his back, pats him down with a dry hand towel, and then encourages him to roll over which André does without further comment; the towel’s slightly cooler now, but still effective enough in cleaning up his front. When Jev dips between his thighs to get at his ass, André snorts and shuts his legs on him, lifting his chin up slightly to glare at him. Jean-Éric just gives him a level look back.

“The lube will irritate the hell out of you if there’s any tearing at all,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ll be quick about it.”

André drops his head back and opens his legs, and true to his word, Jev is thorough but efficient about it. It’s only when Jean-Éric shifts like he’s about to get off the bed again that André feels compelled to move again, reaching out and grabbing his elbow to stop him. He sits up and gestures for Jev to give him to the towel, which he then launches at the hamper near the door of the room. It hits the pile of clothes with a satisfying thud. Jean-Éric turns back and looks at André, and then looks at where André’s still holding on to his arm. André becomes acutely aware of the fact that Jean-Éric put his bag in the guest room earlier, and he’s suddenly unsure of what to do.

“Ask me,” Jean-Éric says suddenly, an echo of earlier.

André doesn’t even pretend to not know, to not be capable of saying what he means this time, and slides his hand down so his is intertwined in Jev’s now, fingers laced as he squeezes them palm to palm.

“Stay,” André says, even if he can’t quite look Jean-Éric in the eye as he says it.

“As long as you want,” Jev says, lifting André’s face by the chin and waiting him out; when André figures out how to meet his gaze, Jean-Éric kisses him.

They fall asleep tangled in the sheets, Max taking up residence at their feet, and for first time in a long time while here at home, André rests easy.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: alcohol use, light tickling, anal sex, fingering, which is actually fairly straightforward despite some angsty headspaces, which -- self-depreciating thought processes, and that might be everything? Feel free, as always, to comment with anything else you'd like tagged.


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